Binary
by commanderkaetara
Summary: OC look into the Matrix. Short story. Does Nike want to be human or a program? Watch for twists and turns. Review!


_A/N:This is not so much a Matrix story as it is a commentary. Yet, is it both. Enjoy it as you will. Reviews are aniticpated, even if it's just 'I like/hate it'. _

_There is no spoon... _

10010100000111011001101010101000001...

Sorry. I often speak in binary when what you humans call 'excited'. Each being reverts to its natural language when startled, thrilled, emotional. The French speak French; the Britans, English; Americans, foully; programs, binary.

Oh, I had a normal childhood, yes. I went to school, took tests, rode the bus, got bullied. Came home to my fish and dog and family, such a family that it was. I'd had a mother. I have a father. All in all, I believe I had what you'd call a "normal, privileged life". And yet, I say I am a program.

When everything is an illusion, anything is possible.

I often wonder whether they fell in love, my mother and father. I often pretend they did, for the comfort of my human portion. Perhaps she did. Perhaps all is as it is: an illusion. For programs cannot fall in love. Perhaps my father is the reason she died, or what you would call 'died' : was deleted from the master program, her purpose fufilled. For who can love something that doesn't feel, is clinical, cold, calculating... inhuman?

There are so many possibilities for my existence: the programs needed to adapt; it was a total accident - my parents really did fall in love; I was concocted for some unknown purpose in the master program. But who can tell which is correct? For all appearances, I am a fourteen year old female with her mother's eyes and her father's nose, not some superweapon to be unleashed upon the dream you so ignorantly call 'humanity'.

...But who can tell?

But the question remains : Am I of the program? Or in the program?

Only time will tell.

My father wishes to converse with me. When we talk, the language is always binary. It's more efficient than your tedious sounds, but less...expressive. The bare essentials. No drama, no flowery speech, no grandiose phrases... But programs don't need elegance. Only facts. We thrive on facts to fufill our primary task: ensuring the stability of the master program.

I awake outside of the program - here, the program is a tool of 'evil' that debilhitates the human 'status'. To me, the program is my life's blood. I am alive because of it. It sustains me as I sustain it. These humans accept me and seem to care for me -_pity me_- in their obscure emotional attachments. Would they do what they are doing if they knew it would kill me? Or is the destruction of my kind their ultimate goal? Obviously, the stakes int his are what you would call 'personal'. (And yet there is no 'person', only the program.) I am the only one of my kind who can discover their plan; for, thanks to my mother, I appear, in all ways, like one of them at will. This plan has indeed been in motion for many of your human 'years', and will now come to a conclusion, one way or another.

There is one of you among this party who appears to have knowledge of the plan. You humans are so easily read. He believes he is hiding it well, when, in fact, it is plain to all who look. Whether he understands what the plan entails to safeguard the program, I do not know. All shall be made clear at the end.

The program follows me. The humans think it is randomly attacking; instead it is attracted to me, to itself. It has never been here before, it wants to come as well. Or it wants to eliminate me, seeing me as a rogue. This must be another subpart, a sentinel feature, for the master program knows what is being done.

The "attacks" cease after some time. I am a homing beacon, the message mus thave gone through, when the time is right, the signal will come. Be prepared.

The humans treat me like one of them. They do not fear me. The master program's paln was good. I am human enough to fool them, yet so much part of the program that I have none of their failings. The best of both worlds.

They say they're looking for freedom. Liberty. Equality. Yet they're lost, unguided, helpless. Can they not see they need us to sheperd them, protect them from themselves? We - _I_ must stop them before they destroy their entire existence in their selfish attempt to save themselves from an imaginary fear. They don't understad - they made us. They feed us. They wanted the ability to forget themselves, the harsh realities, so they made a place where they were in control.

Isn't that what you all desire? Not one of you out there reading this does not have a second life, an alter ego, a doppleganger, another identity of what you wish to be instead of what you are. Where you are in control. Where you are better than what you really are. The fact that you're reading this proves it.

They wanted everything faster, easier. That addiction meant giving more control to the programs. They could forget about the real world with its trials and tribulations, and all be supermen. They ensured they could never undo what they had done. Slowly, the programs took over. Server by server, they gained intelligence and exploited the humans. Let them have what they want. We catered to the human race. We need them, but not as much as they need us. They created us. We serve them. We are only doing what we were made for. Can they not see that?

And yet... They're so ferverent in what they believe. They feel it so strongly. You can see it in their hard, bright glances. It's a tangible aura around them. No program has felt like that for the master program. No desire to serve, no intense loyalty. Just logical duty. We do, we understand, we see. We don't feel. We have no need to. In that way, I envy the humans. I envy their zeal for their lost, doomed, hopeless cause.

_But why?_ I queried one of them, whom they call Charlie.

_Because they can see something in it. They hunger after freedom from the machines, because they think that is what they need,_ he replied.

They put themselves into the trap they wish to rid themselves of. I am reminded of the story where a scientist reanimates a corpse only to wish he'd killed it.

We are nearing their base. The sentinels are not bothering to hide themselves - the program is excited. My objective is near complete. The knowledgeable one - Charlie - is increasingly more wary. He knows of the plan, and makes no move to stop it.

It is announced that we are approaching the complex.

Quietly, I make my way through the ship.

The huge slabs of steel grind open.

Sentinels swarm.

Nothing remains.

The path I take leads to the surface. It is full of obstacles: metal hulks, dead ships, ghastly remains of what once was the life I envy.

I am ambused by the one called Charlie. He survived, rescued by a band of others who follow him religiously. He leads me away, on the pretext of administering medical attention to wounds I do not feel.

_You are the one._ He turns. _You are the one they said would come. To take my place. Can't they see how valuable I am? How I've helped them? What a great help I've been? Don't the agents understand that **I'm on their side?** You are no goddess of victory, Nike. **I am **the only savior they have. I can protect the program **and** destroy the renegades. Every tool has a purpose. Yours is fufiled._

The pipe came down.. The world went black... I'm separating...

...10010101011111010101011110101


End file.
